Urban Myths

I’m donating parts of my body when I die, but I don’t want to donate the whole thing in case I become a body for medical students to practice on. I’ve heard rumours of the way they sometimes treat the bodies they work with and it isn’t pretty or dignified. I accept it shouldn’t matter Read More

Squill

It’s not the pen and ink drawing of the Sea Onion that interests me so much as the word squill. Squill sounds like a portmanteau word made from fusing together parts of existing words. Like “brunch” or “labradoodle”.  My lips form into a petulant pout when I say it aloud and the blend of squidand Read More

Silence Echoes

Silence echoes through the village. Eyes look down as I pass, like cars dipping headlights. It is dark. I see Johanna, my friend. Fingers on my arm. Her touch warms me. She looks to my side as if half-expecting Maria to be there. We don’t speak. My eyes follow a bird, a robin I think, Read More

Mrs Brooksbank

Dear Mrs Brooksbank, You would be pleased to know that Allan Ramsay’s reputation endures.  His poetry is remembered on the wall of Greyfriars Kirk; his face gazes out fondly across Princes Street at pilgrims journeying through this city on their cultural quests. What was your connection to him? Were you, like him, a Stuart sympathiser.  Read More